


Rule 1, 28, and 42 but NOT 53 DAMNIT!

by Questions3



Series: Nightshade [10]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Actual Thief Bilbo Baggins, BAMF Bilbo Baggins, Female Bilbo, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 14:40:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9128101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Questions3/pseuds/Questions3
Summary: Bilbo goes to Moria





	

            “Ah, here we are,” the Grey Pilgrim paused in front of a wall of the smooth stone, looking down to his tiny companion expectantly, eyes shimmering in that way they did when he was anticipating some great affirmation from his audience.

            Sadly, like her mother before her, Bilbo was far from altruistic when it came to other’s egos, “Yes Gandalf, that’s certainly a curious _wall_.” Her amber gaze was flitting to and fro, something unsettling her about their precarious perch skirting about the ledge of such an oddly dark lake in the depths of this particular mountain chain. Honestly, it could just be the water, hobbits not being particularly fond of the substance in any larger quantities than water glass or bathtub. There were also her previous jaunts into the Misty Mountains, none of which had endeared them to her. Goblins ran rampant about these parts after all, and she and her mother had been _guests_ of the nasties before. Either way, she was far from amused by their entirely too open position, and the lack of maneuverability was doing nothing for her disposition, thus Gandalf would have to find some other hobbit to fawn over his mysticism this eve.

            She shouldn’t even have come in the first place! The Took had been officially retired for nearly five years now. It had been a fair run as far as her family practices were concerned. Something like twelve years of debauchery and danger were more than enough for any hobbit, never mind one bearing the name Baggins. And Bilbo had more than enough to manage at the Baggins estates left her by her Gramma as it were, without gambling about all Arda at the beck and call of some damnable wizard that was for certain. There were things expected of the nearing middle-aged hobbit lass, people and family depending on her. She had to ensure the wheat and corn crops were tended and hauled in. Had to deal with any fear of mold or potential illness in the plants themselves. Just last year it had looked like blight was working its way through the fields on the Men closer to the Shire, so precautions had to be put in place, ensuring the strain of infection hadn’t jumped to their side of the river as it were (Bilbo pointedly ignored the fact that their fields were no where _near_ those of the Big Folk. It would have had to bounce over a river, through three farmlands and crossed the village before it was a bother to the Bagginses fields). There had been the new scythes and baskets to commission for the field hands, ensuring quick and easy hauling during the harvest (all blatantly unnecessary, as she was informed multiple times by her foreman, Tobias Boffin. He’d just been supplied fresh tools three harvests ago; they weren’t going to need new tools for at least another ten). The hiring of dependable transport was crucial as without it mounds of crop could whither or rot before they managed to find their way to the processing mills (and if anyone had been more than happy to see the back of the entirely too _involved_ Master Baggins it was poor old Jebediah Bunce who she’d ridden out with on her own pony, some of her elfish blades flashing at her sides as they traversed the Old Roads. It wasn’t that he’d minded so much the company, but Bilbo’s high-strung attitude had worn him out more than the job itself). Once there more care had to be taken to ensure the large hobbit powered muddles and grinding stones were cleaned and repaired from the sallow season. There had been some small concern one of their smaller stations, meant for the preparation of their finer flours and meal, was beginning to show signs of weakening. Old Benji Bolger had been at his wits end by the time she’d assured him he’d have new equipment by the beginning of the processing season (never mind most of his disconcertion was sourced in her repeated and lengthy visits. Benji was a sweet older hobbit who’d been working the mill since before Bilbo had been out of short pants as it were, and knew more than any what the mechanisms could take and was beyond sure they wouldn’t actually require any kind of replacement for at least a handful more seasons).

            And when the wheat and corn was handled there were the honey fields and livestock that fell under her care. Children to keep out of the flower fields (and that had caused quite the ruckus when the Sackville’s found their little dears strung up by their big toes in some trip wire traps when they’d tried sneaking in for a sample of the fresh wares) and the fields themselves had to be tended (Bilbo’d avoided them since the Gaffer had threatened to string _her_ up next she questioned his years of wisdom, those Greenhorns could be so tetchy!). Then there were the laying chickens that needed to stay far away from the fattening chickens (it had been less than civil when she’d accidently let a rooster into one of the hen huts. Cecilia Goodchild had been far from amused when she’d cracked open an egg a few days after a collection to find a chirping chick in her fry pan and a half dozen more working their way out of her cold storage). The Goats and Cows were milked daily (there was nothing Bilbo could really do to fuck that up, though she’d fiddled with the idea of keeping a newly calved calf for a pet when she’d made her rounds). Cheese and butter were churned and seasoned, laid to chill or age as was necessary (Bilbo’d managed to spoil a whole weeks worth of clotted cream when she’d engaged this task with her typical over zealous nature). And later in the year there was the slaughter for the winter stores (Bilbo’d actually happily stayed home for this, not having the heart to watch the big eyed, trusting animals march off to their caregivers to receive that final bash between the eyes. She’d lost quite a bit of weight that first winter, having been so horrified at the idea of eating Becky and Bruce. That had been stopped when she caught a bout of fever and her Took Aunties had clucked at their harebrained niece for the rest of the winter. If only to avoid that havoc she’d eat her own mother).

            Finally she was also in charge of the portioning and delivering of the goods to her relatives. There was a certain amount of the crop set aside for trading within the Shire for other essentials, like Buckland wine, or cloth from the Cottons, pottery from the Clayhangers, lamb from the Boffins. A smaller share was sent to Bree for other essentials, like silverware, ironworks, certain spices that couldn’t be grown in the Shire, medicines from the Elves. This was her favorite task as it required some small jaunts to Bree and haggling with merchants at the market was apparently a forte of the young Baggins (not many were willing to argue near as long as the stubborn ass (that’s not a typo, she was a real pain in the bullocks) and those that could were normally open to the sweet lass’s charm). Her accountant was continuously surprised by her triumphs, even her Gramma hadn’t been that good at the merchant war. Elwood Banks was very taken by the previously presumed flighty Took-Baggins (even so, he could see the restlessness that she tried to keep at bay, until she released it on the poor Tall Folk at Market).

            When there was days that she found herself lacking something to occupy her time for the family, well she had things that need her attention at Bagend. The smial had never been cleaner, her mother’s silver shining like mirrors. Her father’s tomatoes had continued to win at the Harvest Festival time and again due to her and Holman’s continued care of them. Quiet nights would see her tooling lace that Gramma Baggins had taught her to fashion, which she would gift to her younger girl cousins, all loving the dainty and delicate feel of the craft. Knitting was a mess but she tried her hand at that, Drogo being the sad recipient of a number of lumpy and lopsided sweaters. Other evenings saw the lass sitting in her father’s study, scrolling through old tomes he’d collected, or her mother had brought back from her rambles for him. Some Bilbo had picked up on her own travels (though a small clutch sat in the corner of the library gathering dust on a rather high shelf, all with deep gold rune workings in the red leathers declaring them dwarfish in nature). She’d even begun fashioning a rather detailed set of maps that depicted some of her more interesting travels and jaunts about the continent.

            And when all those things failed her the young woman would run off to Tuckborough and help train some of her younger cousins in the family business. She’d already fostered a few through their training, taking some extra care and attention in Primula Brandybucks early endeavors. Prim was still much too young for anything beyond some basic tinkering and lock picking, being only eleven that year but she was showing some rather remarkable promise and seemed to enjoy her older cousin quite a bit. The tiny Brandybuck was almost always attached to the elder Baggins when the pair was both visiting their Took relatives. Some days Aunt Mirabella would even bring the tiny lass over to visit in Hobbiton, staying with her blatantly lonely niece for a week or so. Bilbo would return the attention and travel to Buckland when she was feeling particularly restless, or under the pretense of Baggins business. Not that Gorbadoc minded, he thought the wild Baggins child was a regular hoot and a half; snide and sarcastic in just the way he appreciated. He also remembered the way the little lass had been a very staunch defender of his eldest, Rorimac, even from the tender age of fourteen. He’d been fond of the lass’s mother too but it was the younger Mirabella that had really drawn his eye and affection. Mirabella was possibly the most understated Took of the lot, seemingly quite the proper lass, very polite and charming in her pressed gowns and lace. It was only when you turned your back on the youngest daughter of the Old Took that she showed her true colors. Mirabella had once, literally, whisked the pants right off the Brandybuck’s arse after he’d teased the lass about her wild bunch family. It had been as good as a marriage proposal as he’d been set to have her after that.

            All in all, the era of Nightshade was over. Bilbo’d hung up her mother’s moniker and wrapped their gear tightly, securely depositing it in the small treasure room under her parent’s old bed which she’d sealed and locked for good all those winters ago. Determined not to let any time with her loved ones slip from her grasp again, not for the sake of silly childhood flutters, or friendly faces on people who knew nothing about her. Bilbo hadn’t forgiven herself for leaving her grandmother’s side in her hours of need, regardless of the reasons. Her penance was her work in maintaining their family’s solid standing and comforts. She’d not traveled out of the Shire more than a handful of times since then, and never any of her old haunts. Only ever for her cousin’s when they’d need a partner or aid in a heist and never in her old gear, she wasn’t that hobbit anymore. The take was never hers and she’d feel guilty for _months_ following the transgression, only able to convince herself that it _was_ in the name of family and she’d throw herself even harder at the Baggins estates afterwards. Fully retired. Family was her priority, not the fleeting thrills of chases or the shallow laughter from her previous tomfoolery. And if that left her a little twitchy with excess energy all the more for the work she actually _needed_ to tend to. And if every so often she’d lay awake at night with the memory of greenish brown eyes burning into her and the feel of nimble hands dragging over her body, well she’d just have a few tankards of ale and pass out on the kitchen table, the kink in her neck in the morning doing more to wash away the phantom pleasure than anything else (and though there’s been more than a few eyes turned her way, a few hands aching to take the place of those memories, Bilbo was steadfast in her denial, guarding the memory with the reallocated passions she was denying herself).

            But all her good works had taken a holiday the moment she’d come back from the fields to find a grey cloak hanging in her foyer. The old wizard had greeted her with his usual benign smile and told her about this jaunt of his. He was looking for something that he had come to the conclusion must have remained in the tragic dwarf kingdom of Moria. And when he saw her protest on the tip of her tongue as they sat in the front room sipping tea he’d known just how to get her to come, “It was what I had hoped your mother would be able to locate for me when I sent the pair of you into the Greenwood all those years ago.”

            Well that certainly wouldn’t do. Tooks may be less than proper but they were right honorable and if her mum had said they’d find whatever trinket Gandalf was looking for then Bilbo was honor bound to do just that. In her mother’s memory at the very least (she blatantly ignored the thrill that went through her at the thought of going on one last run as she dusted off and oiled up her gear this one last time.

            And that’s how we found ourselves here with Gandalf frowning down at the irreverent creature where she stood in her traditional black garb. She was sans boots and hood but the black canvas shirt was there, cinched by the leather vest that acted as a holster for her eight throwing knives. Under her long flowing sleeves were two other holsters that held slightly larger daggers she’d filched long years ago from an elfling who’d annoyed her. At her waist was a loose belt with a few odds and ends of her trade, none she was willing to divulge with the Istari but he probably knew about anyway. And her three quarter tights covered most of her softer bottom half.

            Glaring down at the distracted youth the wizard continued as he breathed light into his staff, night having settled swiftly over the mountain, “Dwarf doors are invisible when closed. Their own masters cannot find them, if their secrets are forgotten.” He tapped and fiddled about with the supposed door as he educated the tiny troglodyte at his side.

            With a caustic little sneer Bilbo turned to watch the coot knock at the stone, “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Something caused a small splash; Bilbo could have sworn it as she swirled to look over the dark lake once more smirk turned frown.

            “Ah… now let me see… _Ithildin_ ,” weathered hands trailed over the smoother surface, “It mirrors only starlight,” turning to look up, not noticing the intent glare of amber eyes on a seemingly still lake, “and moonlight.” As he finished his statement the clouds above them parted and the silvered light danced across the doors, which then burst into their own glorious luminescence, causing an elegant reveal of some curious scripture. Clearly awed by the manifest the Old Wanderer trailed a hand over the revealed script, “It says, ‘The Doors of Durin, Lord of Moria, Speak Friend and Enter.”

            Bilbo was pretty impressed with the light show; she’d have to say. But her rapture gave way to instant confusion as she turned an incredulous look to her old friend, “What the hell’s elfish scripture doin’ on a dwarrow entrance?!”

            Sighing, the wizard sent the impudent thing a quelling glance, “Believe it or not, young Bilbo, there was a time the elves were considered just that by the dwarrow. Friend.”

            Black brow bobbed up as she reread the script, “Well then, what’s that mean in any case?”

            “Oh it’s quite simple,” Gandalf much cheerier as he began to explain to the lass, “If you are a friend, you speak the password and the doors will open.” Turning from the door the wizard placed his staff upon the glowing center of the star that decorated the ornate opening, “ _Annon Edhellen, edro hi ammen_[1]!”

            Bilbo blinks as an owl hoots in the distance and the crickets around their enclosure keep buzzing. Pursing her lips the thief turns an arched look to the confused wizard, “Impressive.”

            With a small glare for the hobbit Gandalf clears his throat before straightening and holding up his hands towards the door, “ _Fennas Nogothrim, lasto beth lammen **[2]**_.”

            When nothing happens again, a dimple pops out on a plump right cheek as Bilbo turns her slightly less than contained smile towards the huffing wizard, “Nothing’s happening.”

            Glaring hard, at both obstinate trials, the Istari mumbles as he tried to physically push at the wall, “I once knew every spell in all the tongues of elves, men and orcs.”

            “Old age will do that to ya,” the impertinent little cuss chirped as she settled in on a boulder watching the old man struggle with the solid stone. “And what do you think you’re doing now?”

            “About to knock your head against these doors Bilbo Baggins! And if that does not shatter them and I'm allowed a little peace from foolish questions I will try to find the opening words.”

            Bilbo left the man to his mumblings, looking in her pack for a small snack. She’d near forgotten how much she actually hated trail rations. Gumming at a piece of cram she turned her wary gaze once more towards the placid surface of the lake, still far from impressed by its seeming innocence. When nothing continued to happen through her third serving she snorted softly to herself and tossed a bit of the cram in for whatever fish may be below, truly she was getting as paranoid as old Uncle Isengrim.

            “ _Ando Eldarinwa…a lasta quettanya, Fenda Casarinwa… **[3]**_ ” Gandalf kept mumbling as he scanned the door with his staff, running a hand down the engraving here and again.

            Turning to consider the thing herself for a moment Bilbo turned over her own thoughts on elves and dwarrow. It didn’t take too long before the lass’s brow furrowed and then suddenly smooth as an entirely too bright smile danced over her plump lips, “ _Mellon **[4]**_.”

            Gandalf had almost turned to the hobbit when the doors began to creak open. After they’d done so the wizard turned down to the youth at his side and chuckled, “Speak friend…”

            “And enter!” Bilbo stated cheerily as she sauntered up to the gate. As she was about to waltz in ahead of the old man she suddenly turned and threw herself forward behind the Tall One, hair whipping in from her sudden movements. She managed to swing one of her elfish blades out of their holster and slice at the creeping appendage that had slithered out of the lake before the thing whipped back out and then around her ankle, sweeping her feet out from under her and her body out into the lake.

            Gandalf wastes a moment in shock before stabbing his staff into the water and down on the tentacle that had almost disappeared with his hobbit. Grasping the suddenly emerged Bilbo where she was gasping at the water’s edge he tried to drag the girl up when the beast suddenly reared in the water with an unholy screech, more tentacles flashing in the night sky. Scrambling for purchase, Bilbo snagged her fallen blade and turned with just enough time to stab at one of the creeping limbs. Unfortunately it was hardly enough as another grasped her leg tightly and raised her above the lake, dangling in the air.

            Bilbo could hear Gandalf screaming her name as he released balls of magical fire into the creature, hitting limb after limb, unable to reach the one holding her as the rest swarm him. Snarling herself, the hobbit released three of her daggers into the beast’s appendages before a swirling below caught her eye and suddenly a gapping maw of teeth and death rose from the depths. She couldn’t help her scream, nightmares being what they were. But she was proud that she managed to throw two more knives into the bastard’s torso, distracting it as she cut at the limb holding her with her dagger. With another glass shattering shriek she was suddenly airborne and then under a tumultuous wrath of water and limbs. As she thrashed in her search for air she began to wonder if maybe it wouldn’t have been better to be eaten than to drown. And as the edges of her vision began to go distinctly black she found herself suddenly grasped by surprisingly strong hands as Gandalf lifted her from the waters and began to drag the pair of them out, simultaneously distracting the beast with his pyro kinetics. No time wasted he carried the shaken hobbit into the mines and the pair watched as the bastard tried to follow only to ravage the doorway, essentially sealing them into this darkened pit.

***

            “Come on an adventure, he said. A grand time, he said. History untouched, ancient tomes and secrets. All those things that make a tiny lassie’s heart pitter patter, he said. Well you certainly weren’t wrong were you ya limey bastard!?” With a grand flailing of arms to encompass the entirety of the dark, dusty, soot covered, cavernous hall the paired stumbled into after their wrestle with _whatever in Eru’s creation_ had been tossin’ about in the wee lake outside. With a sickeningly wet squelch the tiny hobbit sent a heated golden glare up at the _bone dry_ Istari. Bastard wizards and their magics

            Gandalf, for his part, seemed torn between his obvious concern tempered by no small amount of guilt at dragging the Shireling into this mess, and pained aggravation at the continued griping of her displeasure up at the Grey One. “I hardly said anything about hearts or grand times, though the rest may be truer than I’d like at the moment.” With a surreptitious glance about the chamber he took in the mithril glinting in his staff’s light where it was buried beneath layers of dust and webbing, dancing in the first illumination it was privy to in near a century if not more, “It is a Mine. The wealth of Moria not being that of gold, or jewels, but Mithril.” As pretty as the silvery white veins were in the radiance, what had the eye linger and the heart catch were the bones that lay scattered where they’d been left to rot by goblins years beforehand.

            Watching the light as it cascaded about them, Bilbo’s heart pitched as she whispered to the Old One, “This isn’t a Mine, it’s a tomb.” Looking closely into the empty stare of a bleached skull a small shiver ran through the damp lass. With nary a thought to her dignity she raced forward and grasped at Gandalf’s robes like a fauntling to her mother’s skirts.

            Glancing down at the apprehensive Halfling Gandalf reached down and grasped the clenched hand a moment in reassurance as they moved on. What little calm they’d managed to attain by the exchange was swiftly cut as they drew near of a fork, three doorways open to them. Stilled by the wizard Bilbo was back to a fluttering panic at the confused and concerned gaze of the Man as he admitted, “I’ve no memory of this place.”

***

            “Are we lost?”

            “No.”

            “I think we’re lost.”

            “I’m trying to think!”

            “Gandalf!”

            “WHAT!” the exasperation in the wizard’s voice was a shallow balm for the tiny aggravator as she forced a ragged smile to her plump lips, “I’m hungry.”

            Seeing the nerves in the amber eyes, yet the persistent attempts to retrieve his mind from the darker shadows that lingered about them, the Istari allowed his own grim smile as he patted the damp curls. With a deeper breath for calm he noticed the slightly fresher air coming from one of the passages, “Ah, the air. It doesn’t smell so foul this way.”

            As they continued their path Bilbo chuckled softly, “Always follow your nose.”

            With a wry smile the wizard leads them into a vaulting room with columns extending into the ether. Watching the tiny hobbit’s curiosity peak at the unseen Gandalf announces, “Let me risk more light.” With a blaze the staff’s brightness intensifies revealing the greatness of one of the richest ancient dwarrow cities to grace Middle Earth, “Behold the great realm and dwarf city of Dwarrowdelf.”

            Amber eyes glowed in the illuminated splendor, only narrowing when something curious glinted from the top of a pillar deeper into the room, “Gandalf, what’s that?”

            Turning to see some ornament hanging from a groove at the top of a pillar the Istari chuckles as he shakes his head, “That, my dear Bilbo, is what we’ve come here for.”

            Dark brow quirks up at this, sardonic voice asking, “And you knew this was here how? I thought you chose this cavern cause it smelled pretty.”

            Frowning at the nuisance, Gandalf marched forward to investigate their options, “There is hardly anything in this place that smells ‘pretty’. And that presently includes you Miss Baggins.”

            “Hey! Not fair! I wasn’t the one who forgot about some wiggly tentacle monstrosity guarding the front doors to this tomb! What the hell were those dwarrow thinking anyway?! That’s hardly a pet!” she groused as she stomped behind the Tall One. Glancing around she saw her options and her path. Without so much as a by your leave she took off. Bouncing off the floor, causing a grunt of surprise from the wizard as she flew up his back and jumped off his hatted head and onto the pillar. Digging in her daggers as grasps she began the task of slowly crawling up, one extended dagger at a time. By the time she reached the top her atrophied muscles were screaming and she was sweating but an entirely smug grin graced her face. Unhooking the tong was a task, it seemed well married to the ancient stone. With a last gouging of her dagger she threw a chunk of stone to the floor, hearing it clang as it danced around below, a splash telling her its new home had been found in the well below her. Grasping her prize she fell down to the earth, allowing the Istari to catch her she finally caught a good look at the odd little key she’d rescued. “Well, if there’s a key there’s a door.”

            Raising his own bushy grey brow the wizard announced drolly, “The height of wit Bilbo,” before seizing the object and inspecting it. A slight furrow of the wrinkled brow broadcast his confusion as he began to tuck away the find, “Though how this found its way _here_ of all places…” Bilbo was about to question the gleam in the Grey Pilgrim’s eye when her heart seized as a beating began to rock the foundations of the hall. With wide eyes the pair raced to the door, barely closing it in time as a pair of arrows whizzed into the room above their heads.

            “GANDALF! A TROLL!” Bilbo cried as she unsheathed her blades, stepping back into the room, looking for an escape. All she could see was shadow, as they seemed to writhe on the walls. Shaking her head she tries to stare them back into silent, stationary existence, “Gandalf!”

            The Istari hears the stomping of the troll and the crying and scratching of orc as they bash into the barricade. Turning to see the terrified lass he moves to her side, readying for whatever comes through that door. “We need to break through their ranks and run for the Bridge of Khazad-dûm. It’s the only way out of this. Fight your way through and keep running Bilbo. I will follow.”

            Sparing a glance at the Istari Bilbo girds her loins and stance as the barricade finally comes crashing down. Before any can rush through the opening the lass sends two blades racing through the air to embed in the head of the troll, yellow white fluid bursting from the wounds, blinding the monster, turning the thing into a roaring fit as it bucks and thrashes, actually stomping its masters into the ground. It does little, ten, twenty, thirty more streaming in under and over the heaving beast. With her elfish daggers she dances across the room and meets the legions head on. She barely acknowledges as the Pilgrim races through the cavern under the troll’s disabled attentions, braining orc and goblins as he wings by. The pair climbing the structures and pillars in the cavern, Bilbo gaining gash after cut, nearly bitten by the diseased creatures as they continue to trample the tiny Halfling, only just keeping her feet and wits about her. Suddenly, a pillar is crashing to the ground, pinning the blind troll and a number of its handlers. Its death cries carrying through the echoing cavern, deafening the others as it wallows in agony. Just enough of a distraction for the Wizard to sweep in and grasp the hobbit before abandoning their overrun sanctum.

            Malice is in hot pursuit, right on their heals, accompanied by the drooling raging beasts at their tails. Orc are literally swarming, crawling along walls and from cracks and crevices as they run through the darkened Kingdom. Like spiders released from their egg pouch, they stream from walls and hidden crawlspaces. Pale and snarling, ragged and flooding. The walls undulate in masses of fetid bodies. Bilbo’s whimper is lost in the howls and beating as she slides to a stop, spotting the waves of enemy rolling into the halls from their front, snuffing any hope of an escape. With a whirling of eyes, sharp and yellow in fear she grasps her knife to her neck, offering the second to the Istrari. If she was going to die it would be on her terms, and there would be no _chance_ of capture in these dark halls.

            Gandalf grasps the hobbit’s offered hand, trying to find a way to save her, apologize for this ill fated mission, something when his heart, which had reached new depths suddenly plunged further, proving there was always hope to be lost, even in the most dire of situations. The roaring was reverberating through the halls. Something big was on the prowl. It made everything stop, Bilbo’s knife blending a thin line of blood into the deeper gash at her shoulder where an orc had torn a chunk of flesh as an appetizer. Her eye was swelling shut as she traveled her terrified gaze through the throngs of enemy where they had suddenly ceased. The orcs nearest them were trembling in something that seemed to be fear; the ones further away diving back into the holes they came from.

            An archway begins to glow red with heat, the closest orc crying as they are singed and running to their own hiding places. As another roar echoes closer to their standoff the archway glows brighter, almost white in the heat. They are down to half the orc army, all looking less than confident in their choice. When the next roar shook the hall, sending stalactites smashing into the masses the rest scattered as roaches under the sudden scrutiny of candlelight. As it echoes into the darkness, the archway glowing white now, Bilbo turns to the dirtied, bleeding, and bruised Istari, “Tell me that’s a polite query for marshmallows in whatever devil language that thing is speaking.”

            “A balrog, a demon of the ancient world. We have only one course of action,” the wizard raced off, grabbing the hobbit’s tunic as he went, dragging her along until she gathered her footing and raced after him.

            They ran through the tunnels, meeting no resistance, only the echoing terror chasing them, what could be footfalls or earth tremors following in their wake. Crashing can be heard as something large and beastly takes offence at the lack of consideration for its girth when the caverns were being crafted. Bilbo is leading, somehow pushed forward by the wizard as he keeps glancing back, his face a mash of concern, terror, and determination. Finally they breach a larger cavern, one with a thin length of rock spanning from their ledge to the other side. Only problem being the winding staircase that leads down to the expanse. The pair make their way stumbling down, Bilbo leaping over the gaps in the stairs like a possessed Billy goat, Gandalf following looking like a singed one. Racing towards the bridge they hear a roar breach the hall and look up to see something large, horned and _on fire_ right on their tails.

            “Of course it has _fucking wings!_ ” the hobbit yelps as she pushes for more speed, fear beyond fear pushing her towards the bridge.

            She doesn’t even notice Gandalf has stopped halfway across until she hears him decry, “ _You cannot pass_!”

            Turning she sees the old fool standing in the middle of the walkway facing off with that ancient beast of shadow and fire, “GANDALF!”

            The thing doesn’t even acknowledge the hobbit where she stands at the edge of the bridge, lungs desperate for breath that wasn’t tinged in sulfur and ash. It stomps to the bridge drawing to the height its sadist maker gave it and roars at the Grey glowing wizard. “ _I am a Servant of the Secret Fire. Wielder of the Flame of Anor.”_

            It seemed less than impressed as it roared into the cavern and draws… _a sword!?_ What the _fuck_ did it need a _sword_ for!?! “It has _horns_!” Bilbo was never one to take to imminent death silently.

            But her incredulity was blatantly ignored as the pair faced off, “The dark fire will not avail you!” Really Gandalf the light show was more impressive around a campfire. “ _Flame of Udôn!_ ”

            Of course she’d never seen the Istari’s staff hold off a sword made of brimstone before. Nor had it nearly blinded her before. And apparently the damn thing didn’t know _how_ to _use_ the sword as it was easily flung from the thing’s hands and down into the darkness below them. Damn dwarves! Digging too deep, digging too greedy.

            “Go back to the shadow!” the Istari roars, echoing through the hall as he surges the air with power and right. Bilbo’s hair tingles on her scalp and feet as she is suddenly overwhelmed by the pure magics at work here.

            But the beast is far from done. Like a negligent fauntling, insistent on testing the edges of its parent’s patience, it lifts cloven hoof and rests onto the tiny bridge, coming closer to the one-man barricade.

            “ _You shall not pass!_ ” Gandalf’s glowing staff clangs onto the bridge severing its advance, sending the thing crashing downwards into the deep, fire whip waving in the air. As Gandalf turns to join the terrified hobbit the blazing thing comes flashing down…

            “GANDALF!” Bilbo races towards the unaware wizard, jumping up and over the man, thrusting him down onto his front as the whip suddenly wraps around her middle burning clear through her layers. Skin sizzles and cooking meat scents the air as a scream pitches through the lass. She retains the presence of mind to scrabble for purchase as an unholy weight near snaps her in two where the blaze had not managed it. Darkness claims the Halfling before anything else could accost her delicate constitution.

***

            She could go her whole life without waking to those damned twinkling eyes ever again.

            “I should sheer you like the bedeviled goat you are.” Was that _her_ voice? Had she been gargling rocks?!

            The bastard had the audacity to sigh in relief, completely bypassing any menace she’d inferred with her grumbling comment as he leaned over the wakeful hobbit, “My dear girl, we’d thought we lost you a time or two there.”

            “My life isn’t near so charmed. Besides, you’ve yet to throw me off a ravine, and that just won’t do,” water helped ease her aching throat as the old man helped her carefully lift into a semi-seated position. It was only then that she was able to take note of how much atrocity had been wrecked onto her plump self.

            Her midsection was the worst of it, she concluded. It was wrapped in lengths of white cloths that had the distinctive scents of aloe, thyme, and mint. Since she wasn’t really _feeling_ any of the herbs or their effects she was relatively certain there was a fair dose of that monkshood nettle abomination the elves had developed and learned to distill into a numbing agent. Really it was unnatural the things they did to their healing herbs. Not that she’d be complaining as they were currently almost surely keeping her out of gut searing agony if that angry red color seeping through the crisp white cloths had anything to say about it. Turning her face a little to her right she found her shoulder and upper arm wrapped in a tight bind, then wrapped to her side, preventing movement as the abused joint conducted counseling and settled differences between the divorced ball and socket. She couldn’t see her legs, they were under the sheet, but she wasn’t optimistic, though the blankets shifted slightly when her toes wiggled. Pity, she’d been trying to kick them off. Well at least they were still _there_.

            Turning back to the Istari she saw the long face and shadowed eyes of a weary soul that had seen too much and gone too far. Pursing her lips (a feat made rather more alarming with the blooming shades of purple and blue and green that decorated her face) she deadpanned, “You look like shit.”

            That’s how Elrond and Glorfindel found them. The composed little hobbit, barely managing to hide a smirk as she watched through drug clouded eyes as the Valar’s shepherd wheezed through an uplifting guffaw. The Golden Warrior shook his head as he addressed his Lord in a carrying tone, “I believe I’ve won the wager.”

            Turning in time to see the elegant Lord Elrond handing over a satchel of currency with as much dignity as he could muster, Bilbo instantly demanded, “What wager?” muddled brown eyes glared through sooty lashes as she watched the exchange.

            Completely ignoring his Lord’s glare the Dandy walked over to the bed and perched on the side, taking the tiny face into his long sinewy hands. The gentle healing caresses were always a little shocking knowing the power the appendages wielded behind his sword. Even as she thought on the dichotomy she felt the warmth of a glowing infuse her tenderized features, soothing deep purple into sickly greens and ghastly yellows as it went. Not healed, but getting there, and far easier to bear the weight of her luminous amber eyes when they weren’t buried in so much swollen flesh. With a small smile the Ancient answered the previous query, “I told our esteemed healer and Lord you would wake by end of day. If only to be a curmudgeon and deny us the ease of treating you while your serrated tongue remained sheathed.”

            Of course, she instantly stuck said muscle out and continued to glare at the giant dandelion, even if he merely laughed at her ministrations. Before she could withdraw it and move onto abusing the Great Elf verbally, however, he moved towards her much abused midsection and the glowing began once more, though this time with a lot less tender warmth. It was one thing to magically sooth a bruised face (which had actually been fractured and broken while she slept these past weeks but small mercies and large doses), it was something else entirely to speed up the bodies natural urge to knit itself back together. She’d damn near been torn in twine when she’d finally gotten to Rivendell and there was only so much the healer could put her body through at any given time.

            The cursing gave way almost instantly to small pained weeping and whimpering, which gave way to damp panting as the elf retracted his hands and removed himself. He made it to a chair by the fireplace across from the bed before collapsing and heaving a few catching breathes himself, “You… were placed… on this earth… to test me.” His glowing blues eyes, dimmed from the magic use, closed as his head fell back onto the padded chair’s headrest. Seconds and he was snoring softly into the room.

            Bilbo’s eyes were red and weepy, ears ringing in shock and pain as she collapsed back to the bed panting and whimpering. Before she could loose herself completely to the pain she felt another set of cool hands run over her sweat damp curls, barely unsetting the bandages that she hadn’t realized wrapped her head. As they settled at her temples she was suffused with a soothing chill, banking the fires of the previous pain, shimmering through her body and limbs as she slowly gained her breath and mind. Blinking rapidly drying eyes the tiny hobbit looked up into grim grey eyes, “That’s new.”

            The grim look gave way to something a little wry and banked annoyance, “Always jokes _Dúath **[5]** _ but I hardly see the humor in this,” the Lord used a slender hand to indicate her prone self. His gaze turned briefly to the Istari who’d stood at the beginning of the session. Whatever life mirth had brought back into the Grey Wizard was squashed by the gut-wrenching cries of the littlest Took. He stood there, looking away from the bed, face aged and lips thinned, only meeting the elf’s eyes a moment before turning once more and leaving the room.

            “Gandalf!” Bilbo’s small, raspy yelp was met with a small reassuring smile and nod, the Istari pausing long enough to pat the reaching hand before shuffling out. Concern shimmered in the hobbit’s eyes as she continued to watch the closed door.

            “Perhaps your concern should turn inward _Tinnúviel **[6]**_. Mithrandir will be fine, his injuries have healed and he will return to his shepherding duties when he sees fit. Your path is not so simple I’m afraid.” Elrond’s frown had followed the Istari all the way out of the room.

            Frowning Bilbo demanded, “What happened while I was asleep? Why can’t he look at me? You’re barely being civil with him and he obviously feels guilty enough as it is without your censure, _hérë_[7].” Her own censure was thick as she stared up at the healer in reproach.

            “Guilt,” the Lord looked down at her covered stomach and legs before turning completely and pacing a moment. When he turned back his face was as harsh as she’d ever seen it, “You very nearly perished Bilbo. It was only luck that showed me your intention to enter those halls days before you both arrived there, and Glorfindel’s quick riding and experience that saved your shattered body from giving out before we could begin to piece it back together. Even then, it was a dubious uphill battle to keep you breathing and your heart beating. You are Valar blessed to be _whole_ to say nothing of awake.”

            Golden eyes became lit to match the restrained anger in the silver ones snapping at her. “Well when you lay it out there like that it sounded right dreadful!”

            The elf Lord’s eyes widened as he came as close to shouting he’d ever gotten in her presence, “We had to _sew you back together_ because you were led into an _orc trap_ in the middle of a dwarf _tomb_ guarded by an evil that hasn’t been seen in these lands in millennia!”

            “And I appreciate the aid you and yours have shown me, have always shown me. You have been a father and friend to me most my life,” here her glower softened as she continued, “but I couldn’t let that thing take Gandalf.”

            Elrond lifted his right hand to his temple as he strove for patience, “He invites you to dabble in things far to large for a peaceful creature of the Shire.”

            Bilbo’s smirk was slightly biting as she narrowed her eyes, making herself seem half feral in her fey way, “Well lucky I’m a Took then, and we’re known for our abhorrent self preservation skills.”

            Elrond’s droll look spoke of all the things he refused to voice. He was not in a state of mind to be meting the Shirelings blithe banter with humor. When Glorfindel had returned with the, miraculously still breathing, child he’d very nearly sent his forces into the mountain to burn the kingdom and all its dark skittering inhabitants. After hearing what had culminated in the depths of the lost Kingdom livid was a word used for lesser rage. Elrond was not a fool, he had lived through the last three ages, and he had seen death and war and knew the inherent evil that stalked the corners of this plane. He knew he and his would outlive the tiny hobbit lass as they had her mother before her. But he would do much to keep the death of this small creature of hope and light from perishing while attempting some foolishness that even he, as a member of the White Council, hesitated to engage. And though he could easily see the guilt the Istari had shrouded himself in at the state of their mutual friend, he knew the Grey Pilgrim well enough to know there was none for the act of engaging the tiny thief in the first place. There was something about the Shirelings that drew the old Istari, perhaps the same thing that drew Glorfindel to this one in particular. But these attentions were hardly doing her any good. And as strong a force for good he was, he was also a father. “Your word, _gwend **[8]**_ , please. That I will not have to work over your bleeding, burnt self again,” as the little one’s eyes turned large chartreuse with emotion he knelt by the bed, grasping the practically infant hand, “Please, think only for your safety from this day forward. Your mother’s last request of me was to see to her daughter, a boon I gave gladly, but even I cannot fulfill her wish should you continue down this path.”

            Blinking back the well of tears her eyes had become as she stared into the beseeching immortal her throat closed around her words but she managed to nod. Relief rippled through the ethereal features of her friend as he smoothed some stray curls behind her pointed ear and nodded.

            A rattling snort and cough interrupted the tender moment as the yellow haired poof startled himself back into the land of the wakeful. Blinking about he demanded of the two laughing compatriots, “What?”

***

            It would take another week of the _intense_ treatments by Glorfindel and Elrond before Bilbo was deemed healthy enough to join the elves in the dinning hall for meals. She still couldn’t walk, her hands and arms making a far faster recovery than her lower extremities, one did not get severed near cleanly in half and just start dancing after all. But she found plenty of volunteers. This night Gandalf had chosen to remain by her side and was settling her in her seat, serving her food, placing her napkin in her lap and then cutting the meat into bite sized portions to make it easier for her to partake.

            “You do realize I’m 40 years of age yes?” her droll look was far too amused as she turned to the sheepish Istari as he finished settling himself into his own seat.

            Glorfindel didn’t even look up from his steak as he corrected her, “41.”

            Curls cascaded around wide eyes, “What!?”

            The Golden Warrior brought a bite of venison to his lips as he annunciated, “Sewn back together,” and started chomping on the sustenance, ignoring the hyperventilating Halfling at his elbow.

 

[1] Gate of the Elves, open now for me!

[2] Doorway of the Dwarf-folk, listen to the word of my tongue

[3] Gate of Elves…listen to my word, Threshold of Dwarves…

[4] Friend

[5] Nightshade, dark shadow. Two words combined, ‘night’ and ‘shade’.

[6] Nightingale. Daughter of Twilight

[7] lordship

[8] Maiden, friend, in this context: daughter


End file.
